Eighteen Months
Dear Rosy Roo-
I missed your last birthday letter. I imagine all will be forgiven, but as this month races past I have so many things I need to remember and write down, so to be sure I don’t miss another beat, Happy Eighteen Month Birthday, three days early.
Wow! Wow! You are talking talking talking all the time. There is not much you won’t say, between the words you know and the words you parrot. From your, “Wake Up, Sophie!” in the morning to your, “Nigh-night, DREAM!” in the evening, the day is filled with Rosy narration. “Booby Nigh-night” will forever be associated with Thanksgiving in Atlanta. On the really long days you simply stomp to the stairs, lay your head on one and declare, “Booby Nigh-night!” There is “Mommy back!” and “Mogurt” and “Morange” (yogurt and orange, respectively). There are the days when you wrap up in a towel and say, “Nice and cozy.” There is “Kwiss” (chris) and “John-fan” (johnathan) and “Tabby” (tabitha). And the way you talk to yourself like I talk to you: “Shoes on baby! Shoes on!” I want to remember it always.
Sophie was an early talker, so I was prepared to hear your voice sooner than later, but it still surprises me to hear your observations, your humor, your games. All from someone so small.
You are my best baby. Still happy to curl in my lap or rock in my arms saying, “Baby! Rosy baby!” When we were in Atlanta your aunt Su said, “Rosy, when I have a baby, if she gives me half as many kisses as you give your mommy, I’ll be very happy.” Truly. I am so lucky.
I missed your seventeen month letter because we were in Atlanta, cooking Thanksgiving for your grandparents who were tending to Great-Granny Ross. We stayed a bit longer than we’d intended, and spent a week making a daily trek to the hospice playroom, where you’d play with your grandmother while I visited with mine. It’s among the most treasured weeks of my life. A time when everything else went into hibernation so that we might attend to the most important matter at hand. Granny was the epitome of love, generosity, acceptance. Holding her hand that week reminded me of the week we waited for you to come into the world. Patiently, slowly, and together. A week when nothing else mattered. You brought so much love to that household, as you do every day. But it was a special kind of love, for a special time.
I won’t soon forget you in your ladybug hat and your sister’s fleece traipsing through the cemetery on a very cold day in December. You and your sister were rays of sunshine in the midst of it all. Your tiny voice saying, “Joe-Pop!” as he read the eulogy. Your outstretched arms, your silly dances. They were such good medicine.
Thank you for being my best best bug. My sweet “booful arina” (beautiful ballerina). My Rosy Roo. I couldn’t love you more if I tried. It’d be too much to bear. I’m so lucky to know you.
love and happy half-birthday!!
mama
